Goodbye, John
by lizinnia
Summary: AU where John didn't go to the flat to see the DVD Mary left, Lestrade did. He saved Sherlock from Culverton. John left his cane there as a goodbye and intended on never seeing Sherlock again. Sherlock realizes this and writes him a goodbye letter.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock opens the door to the flat, turns the knob and pushes it open with John's cane. He slams the door behind him, flops down into the couch, and twirls the cane in his hand, staring at it.

It didn't work. Why didn't it work? Mary said he would come for him. He was supposed to save John.

She was wrong.

She was supposed to know John better than everyone else, but clearly she overestimated his fondness for Sherlock. At one point he would have undoubtedly been there, punched Culverton in the face, checked Sherlock over and made sure he was okay. Not anymore.

Of course, how would Mary know? How would she know how she would die? How would she know it would be Sherlocks fault, that he would get too cocky and her life would be lost as a result? Maybe then she wouldn't have told him to do this. She would know John would want nothing to do with him.

It didn't matter anyways. Why was he wasting his time with this? John left. He said his goodbyes in his own way: non-confrontationally, showing how he felt with actions rather than words, avoiding Sherlock's reaction. It was such a John thing to do; he's pants at emotions.

Sherlock deserved this. He deserved to be left there. He killed John's wife. He ruined John's life. He deserved to die. But he couldn't do that to John. He couldn't die again. Even if he isn't a part of John's life anymore, he now knows the affect his death had on him and he couldn't risk that happening again. He was grateful for Lestrade (and even Mycroft, begrudgingly).

He rolls onto his side, closes his eyes and clenches the cane, John's cane, knuckles turning white. He sits like that, cane tucked under his chin, curled up, not breathing until his body forced him to, pushing out the air and tension in his body.

This was it. John is gone forever. He lost him. Everything he did to keep him was all for nothing.

The fall.

It was for nothing.

All the things he left unsaid, fearing if he let them slip John would want nothing to do with him, began to rise up and fill his body.

He becomes nauseous and light-headed. It's to breathe. He is drowning.

Sherlock realizes he needs to let it go.

He stands up and places the cane so it is leaning against John's chair. He plods towards the mantle where a pen lies, and snatches a piece of paper from an old tablet John used to take case notes on. Used to.

Sherlock knows he can't hold on to his feeling forever. He will ruminate and ruminate and ruminate over and over at incredible speeds, unable to leave behind the things he left unsaid. He knows because it happened before when he was away for 2 years and on the plane, however, that time he had cocaine to blur his mind.

Hopefully this time, now that his thoughts will become concrete, he will be able to free himself from the past, from the what-ifs, and be able to tolerate being on his own.

There was a drawback to his plan, however. John would know. Not that Sherlock cared, John made it clear he left him forever anyways, so him knowing Sherlock's true feelings would have no effect on Sherlock himself. It was John he was worried about.

He has hurt John so many times in so many unforgivable ways, he wasn't sure if he could do it to John again.

But he had to. He knows he had to. It was the only way. The only way to move on and start again.

Thinking about 'starting again' makes a knot twist in Sherlock's stomach. He doesn't want to move on, not really. He wants to go back. Back before the fall. He wants to fix everything to prevent himself from ever leaving Baker Street, from ever leaving John. His John.

Stop, stop, stop!

Sherlock digs his fingers into his hair and pulled, feeling the follicles tearing out of his skin.

Enough.

He has to keep pushing forward.

He grabs the pen and paper and moved to the kitchen counter and writes.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear John,_

First and foremost I want it to be clear what my intentions are in this letter. I am not asking you to take me back. I am not asking you for forgiveness or for another chance. You are making the right decision. You should stay away from me. I have caused you nothing but so much pain, more pain than any one person should ever have to endure, especially you. I don't want to hurt you, John, and I'm worried that that is what I am doing with this letter. Promise me that if at any point the contents of this letter upset you, you will discard it and never pick it up again. I need you to do this for me, so I don't make my last interaction with you a harmful one. What I am doing now, this letter, is selfish. It is for me. I need to say these things for myself, so I can have closure. That's what people do, isn't it? They get closure? You left your cane and I am leaving you this. Admittedly, this is a lot worse. For that, I apologize. I hope you don't find the contents of this letter too disturbing.

I must apologize again because I'm about to do the worst thing a friend can possibly do. I am doing to tell you all of my secrets.

I am sorry. I am so, so sorry, John. I killed your wife. I took everything away from you, every sense of stability you ever had, with her and with me. I'm going to talk about the fall now. I know this is hard for you so please skip this section if you must. But I need you to know. I need you to know I am not a machine. You were my best friend. You were the closest to getting to know me, to understanding me, than anyone else. I need you to know this. I need someone to know the things left unsaid.

That day on the roof I had to jump. Moriarty had snipers. One on Lestrade, one on Mrs. Hudson, and one on you. They were instructed to shoot all three of you unless I killed myself. Mycroft and I saw this as a possibility and staged a plan for me to fake my death. I never wanted you to be there, never wanted you to see me like that, but you knew me well enough to know where I would be and to know I would need you, that I lied to you about Mrs. Hudson and was about to do something terribly stupid. You were right, as always. I am sorry you had to witness that.

The snipers were immediately rid of by Mycroft's people when deemed safe, and I wanted to tell you then, to see you, to leave you a message or a hint that I was still alive, but I couldn't risk it. Moriarty's network is huge, vast, everywhere. Undoubtedly he left people to monitor you, checking to be sure you were acting as if you were truly in mourning. If I had told you the truth and your behavior suddenly shifted, you could have died. I could not risk it.

I spent the following two years travelling the world tearing down Moriarty's web bit-by-bit. It was an endless mission, one I was not sure I would never finish. I considered settling down in the country and making a new life there, but I kept pushing, walking through the web, because I could not bare the thought of never returning to our flat again, of never seeing you again, John.

I made great progress but never finished the job. I was apprehended. Held captive. Tortured. Mycroft found me and retrieved me from my cell. He thought it best I went home. At that point I could no longer disagree. It was dangerous of me. Selfish. There are still people out there loyal to Moriarty. Luckily none of them have come for you, I beg they never do.

None of this is meant to be an excuse. I did not involve you. I left you in the dark. I tactlessly came back with no warning. I ruined your engagement. I am selfish. But I need you to understand that the decisions I made, the things I endured, were for you. I wanted to be with you. I value you, your thoughts, your opinions, your expertise, your companionship. I have feelings, John, I'm just too much of a pretentious arsehole to show them.

 _If you decided to skip the part about the fall, you can start reading again._

You are the bravest, wisest, most human human-being I have ever known. I never was and never will be worthy of your friendship. You are brilliant. You inspire me to be my best. You taught me to be kind. You showed my how wonderful it is to have a friend. You brought me out of my isolation. You humble me. You made me believe that I am extraordinary rather than abnormal, brilliant rather than a freak. You've given me the confidence to grow, tear down my walls (as much as they will allow) and become human again. I haven't felt this human, this alive, in so long and it is because of you, John Watson, that I am able to do so again. You have saved me so many times in so many ways. Living with you was the best time of my life. It was an honour to be your flatmate. To be your friend.

Upon listing and acknowledging these facts it is becoming very difficult to accept our departure from one another, but this is something we both must do, for you.

Do not worry about me. I did briefly consider returning to old habits. Suicide, even. But I have learned. You have taught me that my life is important, that it has value. I do not want to risk hurting you the way I hurt you before. Even thinking about doing so is intolerable.

This letter is becoming enormous; I have wasted enough of your time. I should stop stalling and get to the final point.

I love you.

I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, am in love with you, John Watson.

This is not a fib to get you to talk to me. This is not meant to make you feel guilty about leaving me. This is simply me stating a fact. I know I have manipulated you in the past but I am done with that now.

I am in love with you. I always have been, and I probably always will be.

This feeling (feeling is completely inadequate to describe the pull I have towards you, the drive and need to keep you safe and close to me) has caused me much pain over the years, but it has also brought me joy. Joy that could never be matched by drugs or any case, even a 10. For that, thank you.

Thank you for being my friend. My best friend. Thank you for being my first love. Thank you for making me feel important, for making me feel human. Thank you for giving me the best years of my life. Thank you for giving me a second, third, fourth? (who knows at his point) chance even though I clearly never deserved it.

I am sorry if this confession tainted your fonder memories with me. I'm sorry if I have made you uncomfortable or upset.

Do not feel the need to forgive me. I just need you to know this, all of this.

I am sorry.

I love you.

 _Goodbye, John._


	3. Chapter 3

John is happy to finally be home after his day at the clinic. First a tall, lanky, posh man came in, then a man with a scar on his chest akin to a bullet wound, then Mrs. Hudson called him during his break pleading him to go to Baker Street. It seemed that the universe was toying with him. It was a relief to be able to make some tea and forget about Sherlock Holmes.

He plops onto the couch and turned on the telly.

 **BREAKING NEWS: CULVERTON SMITH CONFESSION**

Or not. Great. John chuckles maniacally. Of course this would happen to him and of course the detective was right about Smith even when on who-knows-what.

John promptly changes the channel to some baking show and sank into the cushions. He will enjoy his evening, dammit!

John absentmindedly picks up the envelope from the coffee table and twirls it in his hands.

There is a knock on the door. Great. Great! The man himself is here, probably wondering why John hasn't replied to his letter, forgiven him, and, of course, ran straight back to him. He looks down at his hand. Christ, when did that happen? He shoves the envelope under a pillow and got up to answer the door.

He doesn't want to see him. He really, really doesn't. He was done. Of course John can't stop thinking about him; how could he? It wasn't his fault Sherlock was somehow everywhere constantly. His increasing pulse was probably due to stress, knowing that Sherlock undoubtedly assumed John read the letter and was eager for him to waltz right back into his life.

John sighs and braces himself as he opens the door.

"Er, hey John."

"Greg?" John asks, voice slightly deflated. "I mean, err, hey! How are you?"

"I'm alright. How's the baby? Parenthood been suiting you well?"

"Great, great. She's asleep in the crib right now, the little thing."

"Right, erm, that's great."

"What brings you here?"

"When we went through Sherlock's flat to find evidence to explain his actions, you know with Culverton, we, uh, found… something. I think you should see it."

"Alright, what is it then?"

Lestrade hands him a DVD.

"I know it says that on it, but it isn't who you're thinking. It's nothing to worry about, really. But you should have a drink before you watch it. And maybe don't watch it alone. It's going to be... difficult." He sighs. "I'm sorry I probably shouldn't even have brought this."

"Deja vu," John scoffs. "No, really though, it's alright. Thanks Greg."

"Yeah. Yeah no problem. I should probably just get going then. It was nice seeing you."

"You too."

Greg turns around before reaching the door.

"Are you going to see him?"

"Hmm?" 

"It's just that we're all taking turns watching him to make sure he doesn't shoot up and I notice you haven't…"

"Yeah, no. I'm not."

"Well can I ask why?"

"There's quite a few reasons, actually. But quite frankly, the man is kind of a prick," John joked.

"Yeah, but he's your best mate."

John sighs.

"Look, I'm not telling you what to do, but I've known the bloke longer than you have and he's changed since he met you. He's always been and always will be a prick, but when you're around he is more aware of the people around him. He tries to be kinder. You helped make him a good man."

John scoffs.

"No, you have."

"All I did was hurt him. I hurt him, Greg. He was possibly dying and he was right and I hurt him. Bad. Christ, I wasn't even around to notice he had turned to drugs and was weeks away from death, and when I found out I never did anything about it. I wasn't there for him for any of this. It's better this way."

"Look, you may have hurt him, and that's not okay, but you've helped him too, and to be honest, right now, this isn't a good time to abandon him. He needs you, John. He almost died and he still might die if we don't keep a close enough eye on him."

"Yeah, I know," John sighs. But it isn't my responsibility. I don't want this.

"Well, I'm going to head out for real now. Remember what I said about the drink and having a friend. Maybe ask Mrs. Hudson, she'd understand."

"Ta. See you Greg."

When Greg leaves John decides that was enough for one day. Enough Sherlock. He goes back to watching mindless telly until he fell into a fitful sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

When John wakes in the morning, he calls in sick, grabs a bottle of scotch, and watches the video.

Save John Watson.

John turns off the telly and digs his fists into his thigh.

Shit. This was shit. It was all utter shit. Sherlock almost died again to save John. And John never showed up. Mary was wrong about him. He wasn't there. He didn't save his friend. He stayed at home in self pity as Sherlock Holmes almost died . He would never be the man Mary thought he was. He cheated on her. He let her go and get shot instead of him. She died and Sherlock almost died and now all he could do was sit there and wonder why was it that everyone I ever- They all try to leave me.

He drops Rosie off at the sitters, goes back home, grabs his bike, and rides around with no clear destination, just trying to clear his head.

This becomes a common thing over the next few days. When guilt and grief start crawling up John's spine, he calls a sitter and he rides his bike for hours on end.

One day, he realizes he's passed Baker street multiple times without even thinking about it. He wonders if Sherlock ever looked out his window and saw him. The thought makes his chest tighten.

John has thought about coming to see him, of course he had, there's a reason he keeps biking after all. He can't stop thinking. He can't stop thinking about the video, about what Greg said, about that madman in that flat going through withdrawal and probably dying of boredom. Something keeps pulling John back here, back to 221B.

The letter.

The letter has been sitting on the coffee table unread for a week now. Of course John can't stop thinking about him, there's something of his right there where John sees it multiple times a day. It haunts him.

Maybe if John read the letter, he would be able to throw it away without guilt and move on.

He goes back home.

John prepares a glass of scotch once more and snatches the letter off the table.

Here we go. Let's see how he talks his way out of his shit this time.

It stings.

It stings and it burns and his eyes are fire and it's spreading around his entire head and it stings. His chest is heavy, too heavy for his lungs to expand.

He punches his fist into the wall.

You should stay away from me.

He punches again.

I killed your wife.

Again.

You were my best friend. Were.

Again.

I could not bare the thought of never returning to our flat again, of never seeing you again, John.

It stings. He wipes his bloodied fists on his jumper.

Tortured.

He slams his head against the wall.

The decisions I made, the things I endured, were for you.

He kicks and kicks and kicks.

You are the bravest, wisest, most human human-being I have ever known.

He swears.

I did briefly consider returning to old habits. Suicide, even.

He shakes.

I love you.

He weeps.

For the first time in years, John Watson allows himself to weep.

He cries for Sherlock. He cries for himself. He cries for Mary. He cries for his friends from his army days. He cries for what is and what was. He cries for what could have been and what will never be.

He cries and collapses and scratches and pulls and pushes.

His breaths come in gasps and as his mind slows down they begin to ground him. He focuses on them, on the tangible. His vision refocuses and the colors return.

As John's breaths begin to feel lighter, he picks himself off the ground and showers.

He gets dressed and brushes his hair and begins to feel human again.

He knows what he has to do but he doesn't know if he can do it.


	5. Chapter 5

John is numb. He has been numb for days, not even thinking about the contents of the letter. Not thinking about much of anything, actually, except going to work, making small talk with patients, and caring for Rosie.

It takes several days for him to think about Sherlock, but even then there's no emotional reaction. He doesn't feel regret, pain, sadness, empathy. He simply is reminded of Sherlock by dumb, everyday objects, snarky patients, blue scarfs, and he huffs out empty laughter, then moves on.

He slowly allows himself to process the contents of the letter after a week of this nothingness. He thinks about it, a few lines every day, tosses them around in his mind, and moves along.

Guilt is present, always, but he doesn't _feel_ it. He knows he should; his best friend bore his heart out to him and he has said nothing, leaving said friend to think he has abandoned him forever. He left him thinking he is responsible for Mary's death. He beat him, and left him practically dying from his drug use.

As the two-week mark approaches, John barely considers himself human. He has always been rude, inconsiderate, and unappreciative (although people have never seemed to notice it because next to Sherlock he is a saint), but now he's even worse because he doesn't _care_. Caring requires feelings and, apparently, those have been completely depleted. He is a robot, a machine.

Despite it having been so recently that he came to the conclusion that he knew nothing about his best friend all along, John now understands him better than ever before. He understands how a man can be so emotionless yet so emotional. He feels as though his amygdala has shut down. He barely reads other's emotions, never feels or expresses his own, and Christ, he doesn't fear anything. Death could knock on his door and he'd just walk outside with him and have a drink.

John realizes that this new-found not caring might come in handy in dealing with a certain detective, and perhaps in doing so he will be free to exit this limbo.

He calls ahead to ask Mrs. Hudson of she can watch Rosie (of course she agrees when he tells her he wants to talk to Sherlock alone), then makes his way over to 221B after work.


	6. Chapter 6

"John I- come in," Sherlock steps aside holding the door open his eyes like the sun reflecting off ocean waves, endless colors and feelings all flickering rhythmically.

John walks into the room and sits down in his chair, not making eye contact.

"I-I'll start the kettle," Sherlock stammers, walking towards the kitchen.

"How do you live like this?" John asked, not in the mood for small talk.

"I'm sorry, John, I don't know what you-"

"The emptiness," John cuts in.

"Oh," Sherlock searches John's face for a further explanation and finds nothing at all.

 _Oh. Oh!_

"Yes. Well I would use, chase criminals around London, and play the violin. Of course, since I met you they are no longer needed for that purpose and now I turn to them for… other things."

 _Other things. Loss. Guilt. Doubt. Pain._

 _Love._

John sighs. "So that's it? You met me and you felt… things?"

"Well, not quite. It didn't happen all at once, but as I became more comfortable with you and myself and I as I fell more and more to the temptation of _sentiment_ they came back. So slowly and naturally I barely noticed until I was jumping off a roof for you," Sherlock explains, walking over to his chair.

"I had that. When I met her."

Sherlock's chest clenches.

"You were gone and I had nothing and she showed me how to live again."

"Another reason why I will forever be indebted to her," Sherlock reasons.

"It wasn't enough. She was perfect. She was everything I wanted. She was clever, funny, a tad rude, incredibly dangerous, skilled, she _liked_ you and the life I wanted to live. We had a nice house together, we were married, we had a baby, and yet she let me go on cases. Hell, she encouraged me to. It was the best of both worlds: I could live an ordinary life without feeling so _civilian_. It was perfect. I wasn't happy."

"Oh."

"When I was at home, when I was with her, I wanted to be somewhere else, with someone else. I _cheated_ on her, Sherlock. She is dead and she was perfect and I cheated on her."

"It's okay."

"It's not okay."

"No, it isn't."

"How can I ever be happy _now_ when I wasn't _then_."

"I don't know."

John huffs and stares straight forward, his mind should be racing, he should be grieving, worried for himself, for Sherlock. He should feel sick and yet he feels nothing. He thinks nothing. His mind is blank.

The silence was broken by the whistle of the kettle, breaking John out of his trance. Sherlock rises, prepares their tea as they always do, and hands John his cup as he makes his way back to his chair.

"You were happy before, though," Sherlock points out, glancing above the rim of his cuppa.

"Yes."

"With her."

"Yes, in the beginning," John agrees.

"But then you wanted more. What changed? That variable holds the solution to the conundrum you've presented to me."

John peers up thoughtfully.

"She lied to you," Sherlock concluded.

"You came back," John admitted.

Sherlock's head snaps to look at John.

"I see. I am very sorry, John. I knew I caused you so much pain, it should not be a surprise that having me in your life has had that… impact. Since your happiness is incompatible with our friendship, it's best that we remain separated. I shouldn't have let you in here. I should have turned you away at the door. I know what I am, John. And if I'm right and you read my letter, you do too. It was much easier to tell you to go through the letter than it is to do in person. I don't know if I can say my farewell."

"Sherlock, our friendship makes me happy."

"John, your affection for me is clouding your judgement. It is clear, if you look at the _facts_ that the contrary is, in fact, the truth."

"No, you are looking at _some_ of the facts, not all of them. When we first met, you saved me, just like Mary did when you were gone. You turned my life around and gave me reasons to feel. You made me happy."

"John, the excitement made you happy, not me. I made you miserable. I am rude and callous and despicable. Even setting the larger infractions aside, I drove you to near insanity on a day-to-day basis. It would be better for you to find a new hobby to fulfill your adrenaline kick, or maybe a career change. It's never too late, you know. You could always be an EMT. It doesn't pay as well but it would suit you. Or maybe pick up an interest in skydiving, who knows."

"Sherlock, you still aren't looking at all the facts. I had adrenaline and adventure with Mary and I was unhappy. It isn't the adrenaline that made me happy with you. And I was with you and I was happy, so your existence isn't inherently making me miserable."

"There must be a pattern somewhere, some variable we aren't seeing," Sherlock lifts his fingers to his temples.

"No, don't go into your mind palace. I know what it is. I've known all along, really."

"Care to explain, Watson?"

"I met you and you showed me what it is like to live again. You did. Not the cases, although they did help, but it was _you,_ Sherlock. And yes, you are an insufferable flatmate but 221B was my home. Being with _you_ felt like coming home. It stills does, in some twisted way, being here.

But you wouldn't tell me things. Important things. You kept me out and then you left me. Mary came into my life and she was clever and a bit of a smart-arse and who knows, maybe I picked up on the fact that she was an adrenaline junkie too. And she began to fill in the gaping hole you left and it was nice. And I loved her, I really, really did. But you came back. You came back and living with her and being with her when I knew I could be home instead was difficult, especially after mourning that home for two whole years. I yearned for it every day. Any time someone knocked on the door I thought it was you. Everywhere I looked I saw you."

Sherlock listened silently, intently, staring at John with the full force of his gaze.

"She couldn't fill the entire gap, just a large chunk of it. And then I went and tried to do it myself, texting some strange woman I met on the bus when Mary was with our _baby_. I didn't care. I didn't even feel bad. It didn't worked anyways, I still felt unfulfilled, and I think I knew that at the time, too that it wouldn't. I must have known. There is only one person who could fix it, fix _me_ , and that person pushed me to be with my wife over and over, _killing_ someone to keep us together."

Sherlock's knuckles turned white around the handle of the mug. "John… I... you _chose_ her. I came back and I tried to stop you even though I knew it was selfish and wrong and you still _chose_ her. I did everything I could to keep you together because I thought that's what you wanted. I... I'm the reason you're miserable. I kept you in a marriage that made you unhappy and that's what drove you to text this woman. I am to blame, John. This is not your fault."

"Of course it is! Of course it's my bloody fault! It always is. I make my own decisions, Sherlock. You did not make me cheat on Mary. You did not make me stay with her. I _chose_ to do this. You thought that's what I wanted because that's what I _told_ you and everyone bloody else! I am an idiot. I am an idiot for not seeing what my own best friend was feeling. I _lived_ with you and I didn't see it. I had no idea when you bloody _died_ for me and _killed_ for my happiness, which lead to you almost bloody dying _again_. Christ, my wife _shot_ you. You're heart stopped bleeding and the doctors gave up on you and I _went back to her_. You tried to save me _again_ with Culverton and I abandoned you and I…"

"John, please. This isn't your fault. We're both morons."

"Yes. We are."

"I think we might just need to… talk about things more."

" _Bloody hell_ do we need to talk more," John affirms.

As the anger has now built up and subsided, John doesn't feel the same emptiness as before, but regret and sadness finally seeped out of his core.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. You have suffered so much because of me and I haven't shown you any gratitude. I-I _beat_ you," John croaks. "I told you that you-you _killed_ her and I _beat_ you. It was her decision it was not your fault, okay? It was not your fault and _Christ_ I'm sorry, Sherlock," John blubbered, tears now rolling down his cheeks.

Sherlock walks over to him, grabs his wrist, heaves him off the couch, and embraces him. John melts into his chest.

"It's okay. You were grieving and I almost _stabbed_ a man with no real evidence against him. You had to act and yes you lost control but it wasn't your fault."

"Yes it was. I told you I am responsible for my own actions. Me hurting you? Yeah, that's not okay. Ever. Okay?" John breathed into Sherlock's shoulder.

"Yes."

"You can't keep sacrificing yourself and letting me do whatever I want because you lo-. Ahem. It isn't healthy. You know this. You _know_ it hurts you and yet you still do this shit. I thought that after you left and when you saw the impact those two years had on me you would realize how important you are. Or at least you'd realize how important you are to _me_. But you keep doing this."

John's hands clench around Sherlock's sides and Sherlock's hands instinctively cover them.

"Because I love you," Sherlock sobbed. "Romantic love is more intense than anything I have ever felt before and I don't know what to do. I don't have the outlets most people have for their sentiment since you are not… gay. And so I did what I normally do, self-destruct." The words are being pulled out of his chest. It hurts. It hurts more than he expected and he leans even more into John. It shouldn't be this hard. John knew already; it wasn't difficult to deduce he read the letter and he almost said it himself mere seconds ago. Yet all the muscles that make up his heart are pulling, straining.

"All I've wanted all these years was for you to do those things, utilize those outlets like ordinary people. That is what's been missing this entire time. That's the gap, the variable. That's why I am never happy," John accepts.

"I tried so hard to ignore this fact. I tried everything else. I denied and denied that that is what I wanted because I thought it was impossible. I thought you had no interest in romantic relationships. I didn't want to press or pry. And on top of that you're a man and it- it's difficult for me, that. Not because I'm not gay, but because of what other people think. With Harry I saw how cruel people can be… my own family. I was supposed to be the normal one and look how I turned out," he scoffs.

Sherlock's knees buckle and John holds on tighter, forcing him to stay up. After a few minutes of grabbing each other, John silently crying into Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock reciprocating into John's hair.

"Do you still want that?" he asks, sounding impossibly small, still sniffling.

"I don't think I can live without it," John states honestly. "But I don't know if I can do this right now. There's still so much to talk through and work through and I _can't_. I'm a broken man," John murmurs, nuzzling into his chest. "I went a fortnight feeling nothing at all and then _this_. And you keep hurting yourself and trying to leave me. I can't deal with that anymore, Sherlock."

Sherlock grabbed johns forearms and stepped back to look him in the eye.

"It seems that we both need some time, John. Maybe it is best if we part ways temporarily, not leaving you, just for a small fraction of time on the grand scheme of things. You have been through a tragic loss and you have been stopping yourself from grieving properly. Additionally, you have been blaming yourself for things that you need to reconcile. You need to heal, John. And I the same."

"I don't know if I can do this on my own."

"You will. I will. Because we need to come back to each other, John. Neither of us are in the place for a healthy relationship right now, you practically said so yourself. And I won't be able to be around you and support you in my current state; I'll keep hurting myself. You were right."

"So what? I leave, return to the house with Rosie, and pretend like everything is okay? I just keep living as if this conversation never happened? As if I don't know you?"

"Precisely. And then you will come back to Baker Street when the time comes."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because there's always the two of us in the end, John. Just the two of us against the rest of the world."


	7. Chapter 7

***Author's note***

So this chapter is kinda an optional one, mostly just me not wanting to skip to them getting together without any developments in between. There isn't really a good way of showing a lot of character development quickly without being like "John's better at this now" or showing a ton of random scenes showing them doing better. I don't want the story to be about character development anyways... the climax already happened, so I just want it to end and feel complete. So anyways, this chapter is my way of doing this, but if you don't care and want to see them happy skip it. These are John's posts on a new, private blog he made as part of his healing process. Enjoy. Sorry it's been 1000 years since the last chapter.

***Author's note***

 **14th December**

 **Ridiculous**

We've waited so long, so bloody long, why are we doing this?

 **15th December**

 **Horrible**

God, I'm horrible. My wife passed away and I'm already moving on and racing to be with someone else. Mary didn't deserve this. I don't deserve him.

 **20th January**

 **Lies**

Sometimes I think that Sherlock is doing this on purpose, that we are never going to see each other again and this is his way of pushing me apart. Sometimes I think the opposite. I think that he lied about his feelings for me and is trying to trick me into forgiving him. Then I read the letter. I keep it in the drawer with my gun now in case I need to read it to protect me from myself and these thoughts. I guess I really do have trust problems.

 **25th January**

 **Rosie**

God, we never talked about Rosie. We never even mentioned her. She's such a huge part of my life and we never discussed how she will fit in in all of this. When I eventually come home, will Sherlock be okay with having her there? He will need to baby-proof the whole flat, which, in Sherlock's case, would involve a complete change in lifestyle. The experiments? The body parts? The swords? They would all have to go. Would Sherlock be okay with that?

Of course he would. He loves Rosie you could see it in his eyes when he looked at her, even if he's awkward around her. He'd sacrifice anything for me, he made that clear as day. But should I let him? Should I let him change his whole life again for me? Sacrifice again for me?

 **28th January**

 **Okay**

It's okay. Everything is going to be okay. Ella advised me to talk to him about "my concerns" so I'll just call him. Calling is allowed, right? He did say we need to talk more. Okay, yeah. I'll do that. I'll just call him.

 **29th January**

 **Talking**

I really should have done this "talking about how I feel" thing earlier. He does love her. He wants to be a father figure to her. He wants to be her dad. I don't know why I find this so unbelievable, but here I am, staring at her as she sleeps thinking about her growing up with the two of us together. He assures me that this sacrifice is not self-harming so it doesn't count. I always thought taking aspects of The Work away from Sherlock would be the definition of harming him, but now I think losing me would be worse. I can't believe that I'm that important to him. I don't deserve him.

I should call him again today, let him talk to Rosie, or at her. He'd like it.

 **31st January**

 **Rules**

Is calling Sherlock every day against the rules? I don't think he knows either and he made the rules, the git. I suppose it's fine, we're still getting space to ourselves and that was the whole point, right? I'm not smothering him or anything.

 **1st February**

 **Months**

It's been almost 2 months since my last drink. That means something, yeah? I'll tell Sherlock, maybe he'll agree to meet up in person soon.

God, I'm in my 40s why am I so giddy about this? Embarrassing.

 **7th February**

 **Dumb**

This is so dumb, why can't I just see him already? Why can't we be together? It's been years. We've been in love for years. And we still haven't done anything about it. Still.

 **23rd March**

 **Sherlock**

Sherlock's been taking mood stabilizers. Sherlock. Apparently he's been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. I should have seen it. The not talking for days on end, his self-sacrificing that could practically be considered self-harm… he was depressed, not sulking. I think he has been for a while. Refusing to sleep and eating, running around the flat at 1000 miles per hour, making terribly risky decisions… the drugs. He was manic. God, I am a shit friend. A shit, shit friend. And doctor.

 **23rd March**

 **Title**

Talking helps but it doesn't stop the guilt. My hand hurts. Now I need to call someone to patch the wall. Great, they're probably going to think I'm a psychopath.

 **27th March**

 **Better**

I get why Sherlock said we need to work on ourselves, I do. As much as I wanted to take him to bed that day in Baker Street, I couldn't. It wouldn't be right. It would have felt like sorrow, loss. We'd be trying to prove our feelings to each other. We would be thinking of all the years we lost. We would be thinking about how stupid we are for not seeing this in each other sooner. We would be in our heads. I want to be in the moment. I want it to feel like love and reunion and rejoicing. I want him to smile and laugh. I miss him.

I'm starting anger management classes tomorrow. I want to do this right. Hopefully Ella is right about this.

 **28th March**

 **God**

Sherlock called and played me a song he's been composing for me. Apparently, he's been doing that a lot lately. God, I love him. I do. I really do.

I think he's doing good. He seems good. He seems happy. Content. I think I may be too, or at least, I am as content as I'll ever be considering everything.

Sometimes, I still worry I will never be happy. That this is all for nothing.

 **1st April**

 **Stop**

Ella is right, I need to stop. Sherlock has been through Hell and back and he is still amazing, vibrant, beautiful, happy. I can find happiness too. I will heal. I need to stop being so harsh with myself. I need to forgive myself. I need to realize that this takes time, years even, but that it is okay. My life may be a disaster but even though these things that happened will never be erased or redone and will never get better, I am getting better at coping with them. It may not ever be okay but I will be okay.

 **1st May**

 **Draft**

Hey Sherlock, can we talk about something serious for a second? It's been a decent amount of months now and I know that isn't super long in the grand scheme of things but I think I'm ready. I want to come home. I might still have outbursts or bad days, but I've been doing a lot better. I swear on my life I will never, ever, lay hands on you again. And as for my bad days, I know you get them too so maybe we can help each other? We'll know what to say and what not to say. I may never again be the younger man you fell for, I certainly have a lot more baggage now, but I'm doing good. Real good. And you seem like you are too. If you disagree then that's okay, I'll wait for you.

God I'm being ridiculous I should just call him and ask to come over and get this on with. There's no reason I should be writing a goddamn script. I'm just so bad at these things.

No, no I'm not. I'm getting better at this. I can do this.


	8. Chapter 8

"Hi."

"Hi," John replies with a ridiculous smile plastered onto his face.

"Those are for me…?" Sherlock asks, motioning toward the large bouquet of white roses in John's hands.

"Of course. I told you I'm planning on doing this right," John states, handing them over.

"Thank you." Sherlock walks over to the kitchen, pulls out a beaker, and fills it with water to make a makeshift vase. "So what all does 'doing this right' entail?" he inquires.

"I was thinking Angelo's."

"Ahh yes, where we went during our first case, how _romantic_ ," Sherlock jokes.

"Hush up. After I was thinking we could come back here, maybe watch a movie."

"A movie, how riveting. Is that all John Three-Continents-Watson has in mind?"

"Oh! Don't be cheeky! This is only the first date but you nev- wait! How do you know about the whole 'Three Continents' thing?"

"Honestly John, by now I thought you would be familiar with my methods."

"You talked to Bill Murray, didn't you."

"Maybe."

"Git. Anyways, I was thinking of having a nice romantic night. I know you aren't too keen on movies, but you can either pick one and point out all of the inaccuracies or, maybe just relax with me on the sofa. In my arms?"

Sherlock smiles, leaning onto the counter, " Yes, I think that'll do nicely."

"Good! Then you better get your coat on and get ready," John orders. "Oh! But first I need to say something."

"What possibly could there be left to say?" Sherlock protests.

"Look, I know you're eager and I know we've been doing a whole lot of talking and nothing else but this is important. You'll like it."

"Go on."

"I love you," John states. "I realized I never said it that day, and saying it over the phone didn't seem right, so I'm saying it now. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I have for years. You are the greatest man I have ever met and it is a pleasure for me to be by your side in any capacity. It is a thrill to be by your side in the way that I am here today. I love you."

Sherlock eyes John, his John, up and down. He takes in the man in full, his soldier posture showing that he is still uncomfortable with this kind of blatant admission. His shoulders slightly less stiff than usual, evidence of his improvement. His smile indicating he is proud of himself for making it this far. His eyes, proof. Proof that he means it. That he wants this. Sherlock didn't have any doubts that this is what they wanted, not after the months they've talked, but he never saw it in such a concrete matter. Never heard such a declaration.

"I love you too," he says. For the first time, and certainly not the last.

They giggle with the giddiness of it all.

"Let's get going then, shall we?" John offers, raising his hand out for Sherlock to grab.

"Let's."


End file.
